


No future

by nojoking



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nojoking/pseuds/nojoking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cazaril drags his body along the track - thinking too little too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No future

Can I be bothered? Why am I dragging myself along this road to nowhere? What is the point? As if anything is likely to change along this depressing semi-frozen muddy winter track in this windswept valley. Cold, dreary, depressing, and cold. 

The tired body dragged itself along the road. The even more tired brain could barely be bothered to think. The aching stomach remembered the last crumbs with fondness. One foot in front of the other, then again, and again. Just keep plodding and we’ll get there. One faint brain cell flickered – where is there? Where are we going?

Another answered – We’re going to the castle. Where we started. Where there may be some sort of chance for food. Home is too far away, but the castle – I think we can get there. And the Provincara’s not dead as far as I know. She might have a faint memory of who I used to be. She might even be willing to give me a job in the stables. And a pile of straw to lie on. She used to feed everybody pretty well – I won’t have to eat the straw anyway. 

Would need a bit of magic for straw to feed me – huh. Rats, okay, grilled on a stick over a fire, or pan-fried with rancid fat and not-quite-rotten somethings. At least today there would be no rats to eat – maybe nothing at all – but scrawny rat in the courtyard of his last command – at least not that. After all that, and the years as a slave – he was free. Nobody could make him do anything. Free. Penniless, aching and part-broken, somewhere beyond exhausted, and very alone.

Mostly, nobody would even notice him. Battered and useless as he was. His hand clutched at his tunic to keep the wind from whistling any closer to his thin ribs. A long time since he had robes. A long time since shoes. Oh such a long time since he was clean and well-fed. Not much chance of that in the foreseeable future. And what was the point of trying to guess the future. He had never heard of anyone getting their drink-fuelled guesses any closer than 50-50. That’s why they’re called guesses – his tired brain managed a tired chuckle. 

Perhaps the gods can say what’s going to happen in the future. Thanks be that I’m too insignificant for any of them to be bothered with me. 

In the distance, he heard the drumbeat of cavalry, a mounted troop coming down the road at a steady pace. Not too far from home, perhaps. The horses were getting a second wind at the prospect of food and stabling. That sounded a good idea to him – but food and stabling were for favoured and pampered guests or at least useful one such as horses. 

Too long ago – his feet hurt. His legs hurt. His back hurt. His hands hurt. He tried to think of a bit of his crumbled carcass that didn’t hurt. Perhaps the elbows, he thought – and he felt his face crack in an unaccustomed smile. Not much of a smile – because that made his chapped lips crack. Ouch.

“Oi, you there, old fellow – is that the road to Valenda?.”


End file.
